Doctor Strange-love
by englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: Alternate first meeting where Sherlock turns up as Dr. Watson's patient. Sherlock is Sherlock, his new doctor is surprisingly observant, and Johnlock is inevitable. A play on ASiP. Potential spoilers if you haven't seen all the episodes. Rating for later chapters. M/M. Crack/Fluff/Angst/Smut. TW: Suicidal thoughts, implied drug use.
1. The Impatient Patient

"I told you. I'm fine."

"Clearly," came the sarcastic retort.

His thin shoulder rolled halfway back, allowing him to glare over it at the gentleman behind him. No rain in weeks, yet he was twirling that damnable umbrella as always.

"You know why you always carry that _thing_ about, don't you? That ludicrous crutch of yours?"

"Perhaps one day you'll enlighten me on the subject. As for now, I'm more concerned with your subconscious motivations for holing yourself up in this…" Mycroft looked around and wrinkled his nose, "…and refusing the assistance you – "

"Oh, do spare me the analysis," the figure on the sofa mumbled, burying his face once more in the cushions.

"Yes, well, I'll be willing to forego the deep discussion of your psychological state if you'll simply agree to seek medical attention for the injuries you've sustained on your recent, shall we say, _jaunt_ , around London's more colorful neighborhoods."

"You will, I assume, refuse to leave until I agree?" Exhaling something between a growl and a sigh, he leveraged himself slowly to a sitting position. "Alright. Will that be all?"

"The car is waiting."

"Now?! Honestly, I assure you that I can manage this without – "

"And if you don't? I have a responsibility."

"Since when am I your responsibility?"

"Since Christmas dinner. When I promised Mummy."

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes!" the portly man called, stepping further onto the pavement and hoping he wouldn't have to run to catch up.

Sherlock paused for a moment, clenched and unclenched a gloved fist, then spun around sharply on his heel and blinked.

"Mike. Mike Stamford."

Sherlock blinked once more before a look of vague recognition spread across his features.

"Ah, yes, Mike. Well. Hello." He waited barely long enough for the older man to reach him, then resumed his purposeful stride.

"Haven't seen you in a bit. Thought you were busy running about town trying not to get stabbed. What happened?"

"Got stabbed," Sherlock replied humorlessly.

"Oh, ha, um… going the wrong way then, mate?" Stamford said hurriedly, pointing toward the A&E entrance behind them.

"Nope." After a moment, he added, "not spending an entire day contained with the disease-ridden masses waiting for an overworked incompetent to botch routine stitches. And as for smaller surgeries, it's hard to find someone worth seeing who isn't utterly and unforgivably dull."

Stamford let out a chuckle.

"What?"

"Well you're the second person to say that to me today."

Sherlock stopped abruptly, causing the woman behind him to spill her coffee down her jacket and curse. He turned a finally-interested eye toward his accidental companion. "Who was the first?"

* * *

Placing the final patient chart in the "completed" bin, the doctor stood, stretched, and opened his door. The waiting room was empty save two men, one of whom was sitting, scrolling through something on his mobile and looking uncomfortable, while the other was speaking over the woman at reception.

"…closed for the evening. And frankly, sir, given your injuries, you would do better to seek assistance at A&E, as I mentioned when you first…"

"…if he had warned me that I would be wasting my time repeatedly explaining to _you_ that I do not, in fact, require an appointment…"

"Mike? What are you doing here? Didn't get enough of me over coffee this morning?" the doctor interrupted, attempting to lighten the atmosphere.

"John!" Stamford jumped up from his chair, visibly relieved. "Was wondering when you'd turn up. This," he motioned toward the tall man now looking smugly at the receptionist, "is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock," he gestured back toward the doctor, "this is Dr. John Watson."


	2. I Never Guess

"Morphine or cocaine?"

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, morphine or cocaine?"

"Cocaine. How did you…?" Sherlock furrowed his brow, casting a suspicious glance at the man now efficiently (and surprisingly gently) stitching the gash in his side.

The doctor simply smirked, completing his work in silence. Posh bloke, defensive wounds on hands covering older versions of the same, skeptical yet hopeful expression about the eyes.

"Did you get him, then?" Dr. Watson inquired, snapping off his gloves and tossing them with practiced ease into the bin.

Sherlock snapped back to reality. "Who's that?"

"The criminal you were chasing. One who gave you that," he gestured to the already-healing stab wound he had just treated. "He was aiming to do some real damage, I'd reckon. But seeing how widely he missed his mark, I'd wager you were the victor in the end."

Sherlock looked up from his shirt buttons, seeming to forget for a nanosecond what he was doing. Then, neglecting to fasten the top three, he turned toward Stamford with a slightly irritated expression.

"You told him about me, then," he accused in a disappointed tone.

"Not a word," came the almost gleeful response.

Stamford was left to thank the doctor for both of them, and as he closed the door behind his unexpected patient, John chuckled to himself. Eyeing the computer screen still glowing on his desk, he flexed his fingers and opened his browser. _Search: Sherlock Holmes, detective._

* * *

The following Wednesday evening, Dr. John Watson placed the final patient chart in the "completed" bin, stretched, and opened his office door. Before he could register one word of the argument breaking out at reception, he raised his voice in a cheerful tone.

"The doctor will see you now."

Sherlock aimed a smug smile at the nurse before sauntering into the exam room. Without a word, he began stripping off his coat and scarf, laying them carefully on the exam table before casually tossing his jacket and shirt onto a nearby chair.

"What've we got today then, hm?"

"Bruising along my back and lower ribs on the left side," he replied matter-of-factly, drawing himself up to his full height as he stood before his new caretaker. _Doctor_ , he corrected himself swiftly. _Though if it would mean replacing Mycroft…_

"Your brother has been managing care of your stab wound well," Dr. Watson commented as he studied the green and purple contusions on Sherlock's wiry frame. There was no answer, but John could feel the tension increase in the other man's spine. "Well, it was a near miss to your stitches. Lucky that. No internal bleeding. Nothing to be done, really. I'd tell you to rest," he glanced at the other's bored expression, "but something tells me my efforts would be futile."

He sat and made a few notes in a chart, then realized his patient was still standing, half undressed, behind him. He spun slowly, letting his eyes linger just a moment on the lean yet unexpectedly muscular chest before meeting the other's eyes. "Was there something else?"

Sherlock appeared lost in thought, blinked suddenly, and began dressing as though he was in a great hurry. "No. Thank you. I… no," he answered without meeting the doctor's gaze. As his fingers wrapped around the doorknob, he paused briefly, then shook his head and tore through the waiting room into the cold London night.

* * *

It was precisely 4:59 the next evening, and Sherlock had just opened his mouth to utter abuse at the nurse when he heard a familiar voice to his left.

"Mr. Holmes." Dr. Watson was standing in the exam room doorway expectantly, chart in hand. Uncertain whether he was more bothered by being a foregone conclusion or impressed by his physician's intelligence, he simply nodded and proceeded calmly into the room.

"Let's check those stitches, shall we?" He motioned to the exam table, where Sherlock reluctantly took up his perch before removing his layers. John removed the bandage, inspecting the wound and surrounding bruises without speaking. After several minutes, he wheeled back to his desk and wrote in the open chart.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "So –"

"Afghanistan. And no, just because it's psychosomatic doesn't mean I can just shake it off."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I go mad if the milk carton is left empty in the refrigerator. I don't discuss my therapy sessions or the reason I attend them. I blog about anything interesting that happens in my life and that may include your work. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?"

Sherlock looked stunned. "Who said anything about – "

"Flatmates? Who else would a recovering addict who sustains frequent injuries ask to go in on a flatshare? Since you're willing to accept money but not help from your brother, I'll assume you've already found a place. Central London, I'd say."

"221B Baker Street. Sorry… how did you guess that I came about a flat?"

"I never guess," Dr. Watson stated, opening the door. "Tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock."

Sherlock nodded dumbly as he walked through the waiting room and out into the biting wind.

"Oh, and one more thing," John called, catching up to him on the pavement. "Fell out of your coat."

The detective hoped the sharp winter air accounted for the sting in his cheeks as the doctor returned his riding crop.


	3. Baker Street

**The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

22nd January

Well, I don't know if this counts as "something happening," but it's better than nothing, I suppose. Mike Stamford dropped by just before my shift closed this evening with a thirtysomething public school type mate of his sporting a stab wound. He had clearly been avoiding medical treatment, though he gave me no trouble in the end. There's nothing much to say about the encounter, except… Something about him stuck with me. He's this pale, thin, quite tall bloke with razorblade cheekbones and haunted eyes. I don't know. Somehow, I'm certain I'll be seeing him again.

 _3 Comments_

"Razorblade cheekbones"? Something you'd like to come out about, mate?

Bill Murray

Nah, not John "I'm not gay" Watson…

Harry Watson

Harry, I'm not gay.

John Watson

28th January

He returned this evening at closing. The Impatient Patient. Nasty bruising, but no need for medical intervention. He must have known that, which means he came for another reason. He also seems surprisingly strong for someone clearly underweight – a benefit of the job, I suppose. He'll be back soon. Tomorrow, I should think.

 _5 Comments_

"Surprisingly strong… benefit of the job" – John, you can tell us, honestly.

Bill Murray

Wait, what is this job? Stab wounds, bruising?

Harry Watson

Consulting detective. And John, how'd you know about his work?

Mike Stamford

Googled him.

John Watson

Really, mate…

Bill Murray

29th January

Right on cue tonight, there he was in my waiting room. We'll look at the flat tomorrow.

 _4 Comments_

Um… ?

Harry Watson

Yes?

John Watson

Nothing.

Harry Watson

Good.

John Watson

* * *

Unfolding himself from the rear of the taxi, Sherlock noticed the steaming cup of Speedy's coffee in Dr. Watson's hand. He surreptitiously consulted his mobile while paying the driver: 7:03pm. As that could hardly be considered late, he wondered at the tingling of anxiety at the back of his neck.

"Evening."

"Doctor Watson."

"John, please."

 _John then. Okay. Is this important? This isn't important. Why is this important?_

John had continued speaking, but Sherlock heard nothing save his own thoughts until the street door opened revealing a small entry hall and a woman in purple.

"Sherlock!" She exclaimed happily as the detective kissed her cheek.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson. Shall we?" He glanced back at his would-be flatmate quickly before bounding up the two flights of stairs, waiting impatiently at the entrance to the sitting room as John and his cane made the cumbersome ascent. In his haste, he has missed the knowing smile exchanged between his doctor and their landlady.

* * *

"That's why I've gone ahead and moved in," said Sherlock, before he realized what Dr. Watson had said and began buzzing about in an attempt to tidy up. Not that he cared. _Why do I care?_

"John," interrupted Mrs. Hudson, "there's a second bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two…"

"'Course we'll be needing two," he replied, feigning confusion. Mrs. Hudson went on to say something about their neighbors, but John was busy noticing the pains Sherlock took not to notice what she was insinuating. He had already suspected as much about his new patient; this simply confirmed it. The only question was why Sherlock felt it needed to be hidden.

As the tall man flitted around the room placing and replacing folders, newspaper clippings, and – a skull? – John eased himself into one of the sitting room chairs. _Well, on the one hand, Sherlock is a slob. On the other, he'll never notice if I permanently appropriate this pillow…_

The next thing John knew, there was a police DI charging into the flat requesting Sherlock's assistance with those bizarre serial suicides that'd been in the paper recently, after which followed a spirited round of jumping up and down, concluding with the swirl of that heavy wool coat out onto the landing. A baritone, "have a cup of tea and…" trailed behind him up the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson had already returned to her own apartment on the ground floor, so John allowed himself a grunt of discomfort as he forced his cane to bear the weight of lifting him from his chair. He limped into the kitchen and had just set about making that recommended cuppa when a deep voice intruded on his silence.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

Without speaking, John clicked off the kettle. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to face Sherlock, raised his chin, and followed that damn billowy coat out the door. Forgotten on the counter of 221B was a coffee mug, bearing the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps.


	4. Murder and Mycroft

And in a flash, Sherlock was gone. Well, not gone, exactly, but down a dark alley yelling "PINK!" which amounted to the same thing. John wasn't sure exactly how his evening had taken such an odd turn, nor was he sure of where he was at the moment.

"Brixton," replied Sgt. Donovan, holding up the crime scene tape and suggesting that a taxi might be found out at the main road. "You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm… Just met him."

Sally began hypothesizing about the reasons Sherlock Holmes might one day become "the one that put the body there," but after a full day of patronizing hypochondriacs, John simply did not have the patience for it. He thought he caught the end of one last snarky comment as he turned heel and limped toward the lights at the end of the road, barely registering the sound of a ringing pay phone to his right.

Or the ringing of a take-away lobby phone on his left. _Hm._ He was wandering toward home (he hoped), determined to lessen the cab fare, when he was stopped by the ringing of yet another pay phone in the booth to his right. Could be a coincidence, but the universe is rarely so lazy…

"Hello?"

"Dr. Watson."

* * *

"You don't seem very afraid," said the man with the umbrella.

"You don't seem very frightening," John replied, surprised at his urge to kick that _crutch_ out from under his abductor.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"Just met him last week."

"And since then you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together?"

"Yes," John answered calmly. "Perhaps you should expect a happy announcement by the end of the week. Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing you're not friends?"

"I'm the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having: an enemy. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his archenemy. He does love to be _dramatic_."

"And now I see where he gets that from," John shot back, enjoying the look on his opponent's face at being unmasked.

A sudden beeping in John's pocket echoed off the concrete walls. He opened the text message: _Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH_

 _And if inconvenient? JW_

 _Come anyway. SH_

The man with the umbrella had continued speaking, offering payment for something which sounded halfway between spying and tattling on his flatmate. "I worry about him. Constantly."

"Well you are quite the Big Brother, aren't you." John's raised eyebrow underscored his emphasis, which was clearly not lost on its target. "I suppose your concern was evident in your payment of his medical expenses, not to mention those suits… The pair of you. Imagine the Christmas dinners," he furrowed his brow and looked into the distance as if trying to picture the scene.

"Do you accept?" Mycroft huffed.

"No."

"You're very loyal, very quickly." He sounded suspicious, but of what, exactly, it was hard to say.

John simply shrugged and turned back to the car that had delivered him to this ridiculous rendezvous. The beep sounded in his pocket again: _could be dangerous. SH_. John smirked.

"221B Baker Street. But I need to make a stop first."

* * *

 _Not now. JW_

 _Why, what've you got on that's so important?_

 _Nothing. Just, not now. JW_

 _John, what is going on with you lately?_

 _First you're blogging about some hot patient_

 _Don't ever recall saying "hot." JW_

 _Whatever. And then you've moved IN with him after knowing him what? A week?_

 _Harry. Please. I'll call you tomorrow. JW_

 _And now you don't have five minutes to talk to me about MY DIVORCE? Why? Because of this… person?!_

 _You know, John, if you did have something going on with him…_

 _I'm not gay, Harry. JW_

 _I know I know, but if you WERE attracted to men_

I'm not attracted to men. JW

 _Fine. FINE. I still don't see why we can't just have a chat tonight._

 _You only use caps when you've been drinking. I. Will. Call. You. Tomorrow. JW_

 _Why do you keep signing JW on your texts? Is that some new fad thing?_

 _Goodnight, Harry._

Shaking his head wearily, John replaced his mobile in his pocket and reached for the door handle. A light tug at his coat sleeve made him pause.

"Do you get any free time, John?" Anthea asked, feigning disinterest in her own question.

"Dr. Watson. And something tells me my free time is no longer my own." He opened the door, avoiding a puddle on the pavement as he stepped out of the car. Turning, he saw that Anthea was still leaning toward him expectantly. "Bye," he answered sarcastically, shutting the door with unnecessary force.

There was a glow in the upstairs window. John steeled himself. He had no idea what was about to happen to him, but he knew it wouldn't be the nothing to which he had grown accustomed. As he raised his fist to knock, he felt the weight of keys in his jacket. Right. This is home now. Baker Street. Murders. Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Welcome to London

"It's a three patch problem."

John turned toward the kitchen before letting the relief show on his face. The way Sherlock had been gripping his arm as he entered the sitting room – he hadn't pressed him for information during that first visit to the clinic, but he'd been a doctor long enough to read the signs. _Must search the flat later. Even if he's clean now, there's likely something…_

"Can I borrow your phone?"

The question arose from the prone figure on the sofa, looking something between a ghost and an angel, the way his shirt collar sat open against that devilishly swanlike –

John cleared his throat before tossing his mobile on Sherlock's chest with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, and practically sprinted for the kettle. _If Harry could see me now,_ he thought, rolling his eyes.

After a moment, he realized Sherlock had been speaking, presumably to him. "Hm? No, you lazy sod, send it yourself. I was the other side of London," he complained, blowing the steam from his tea and settling into his chair. Then he saw what Sherlock was digging through.

"That's…"

"The pink lady's case, yes. Oh, and I suppose I should add: I didn't kill her." He went on to explain in rapid-fire detail exactly how he had located it, apparently within an hour of arriving at the crime scene. "You see, I got all that because I realized the case'd be pink."

"Of course it'd be pink," John replied nonplussed. The detective's mouth gaped slightly. Though no sound came out, his mental calculations were almost loud enough for John to hear. Suddenly, he snapped back to attention and began throwing on jacket, coat, and scarf, snapping about there being no time for the police.

"So why are you talking to me?" the blogger inquired. "No, wait, let me guess. Mrs. Hudson took your skull?"

For the first time since they'd met, Sherlock Holmes laughed.

* * *

Sherlock looked pointedly out the window at 22 Northumberland Street, grateful for the excuse to ignore Angelo's not particularly subtle way of outing him to his new flatmate. At least John was kind enough to simply smile politely in response. _He is kind. Why do I know he's kind? Why would that matter?_ Yet even as he asked himself questions to divert from the warm stirring in his chest, he knew something was happening. Because of this doctor, this person he had so suddenly invited into his space, into his life, without a thought for what it might do to him. _Hm._ _Bit not good._

"It's more romantic," Angelo was saying, setting a lit candle on the crisp tablecloth.

Sherlock jumped to correct his mistake. He couldn't risk John thinking he had planned this. "He's not my – "

"Thanks," John interrupted, still smiling. He finally turned to Sherlock then, speaking calmly as if continuing an existing conversation. "People don't have archenemies in real life. They have people they know, people they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"Dull." Sherlock spat, maintaining his focus on the cross street.

"You don't have a girlfriend then." It wasn't a question. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

The detective's head whipped around. No one had ever asked him so bluntly before. Sure, there were those that knew. Well, strongly suspected. He had never actually confirmed anything to anyone, as it was none of their business and had never been an issue anyway.

 _Taking too long to answer!_ His brain fired.

"Which is fine, by the way," John continued, feeling guilty for calling his flatmate out unexpectedly.

"I know it's fine."

"So you've got a boyfriend…" John looked back at his plate.

"NO." Sherlock stated more firmly than he'd intended. _What is happening right now?_

"Right, ok. So you're unattached. Like me."

 _Like me. Like me?_ John was most decidedly not like him. Sherlock was absolutely certain, based on his analysis thus far, that John had rarely suffered rejection, that he understood and took advantage of the means by which people achieve and maintain romantic relationships, that he was without a doubt experienced in matters of both the heart and… transport. _So what could John possibly mean by saying he's "like me"?_

 _Unless…_

* * *

"Taxi stopped. Don't stare."

"You're staring," John quipped.

"Can't both stare," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. As leapt up from his seat, he noticed that, despite his instructions, John was staring. But not out the window. "I… uh…" _Oh, not now._

Being hit by a car stepping off the curb jolted him back to the task at hand. _THINK: one way, road block, turn, turn, OH!_ Around the pedestrians, up the stairwell, across the rooftop. John ran behind, fueled by a level adrenaline he hadn't felt since returning to civilian life.

Until Sherlock cleared the chasm between apartment buildings as if jumping over a crack in the pavement, consumed by the thrill of the chase. John stopped short, uncertain whether this was a chance he should take. Perhaps he'd made a mistake. It had all happened so fast, and he hadn't allowed himself a moment to question, to evaluate, to doubt…

"John!" Sherlock was waiting for him. _This is it Watson. Decision time._ John jumped, landing on his feet and suddenly wondering why he'd been so afraid.

 _Greens Court, left turn, just missed him, this way no this way_ SLAM! Sherlock's arm came down on the front of the cab they'd been chasing and he ran to the side, wrenching open the door and flashing a police badge.

"No. Teeth, tan, what, California?" As Sherlock grumbled to himself, John attempted to salvage the situation.

"Welcome to London," he nodded and shut the door as the taxi pulled back into the street. As he panted with exertion, the frustrated detective burst into a fit of giggles. "What?" John asked, trying not to notice how the younger man's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Nothing, just… 'Welcome to London.'"


	6. Drugs and Drivers

Once they'd eluded the officers set on them by the confused tourist, the pair settled into a comfortable pace. At some point, Sherlock had draped his arm across John's shoulders, but didn't seem to realize it until they reached 221B.

The consulting detective smiled down at his flatmate for a moment, then finally seemed to notice what he'd done as he considered the need to retrieve his key. Before he could remove his hand from John's right shoulder, however, the blogger's left arm slid loosely around his waist.

"No need, I've got mine right here, just a mo'," John said, reaching into his own trouser pocket.

 _Just bracing himself,_ Sherlock thought, though John continued to hold fast to the taller man's hip as he leaned forward and unlocked the door. _Maintaining his balance,_ he told himself as John turned to face him, backing into the hallway. _Only… um…_ his mind groped for another excuse as John leaned against the wall, pulling the surprisingly nervous detective toward him.

"That," John gave a low, breathy laugh, "was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock countered, hearing his heart pounding against his ribcage and hoping it wasn't equally audible to his… his…

"Well," the pressure of John's arm increased on Sherlock's lower back. The blue of the soldier's irises deepened dramatically, and he tilted his head upwards. "That wasn't just me."

The detective suddenly became aware that he was holding his breath. John's intention was unmistakable, and yet, _it couldn't be. He's not… in those texts with his sister, he clearly stated… though he also said he was "like me." I do always miss something. Could he really mean…?_

"Sherlock," John's voice brought him back. He'd have to decide. Now. _Is it worth the risk? What happens when I inevitably wreck this? Is there even a chance he would –?_

"Sherlock!" Came Mrs. Hudson's tearful call from her doorway. The two men instantly fell apart, standing side-by-side against the wall. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

* * *

Sherlock came barreling through the sitting room door. "You can't just break into our flat!" He yelled indignantly.

"I didn't. 'S a drugs bust." DI Lestrade seemed all too happy to watch his team tear through every cupboard, drawer, and bin in the place.

John stepped in calmly. "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call 'recreational.'"

"John," Sherlock turned his back on Lestrade, fixing his flatmate with a meaningful stare. John gripped Sherlock's upper arm firmly and nodded almost imperceptibly, never breaking his gaze. When he felt a bit of the anxiety release from his bicep – _surprisingly muscular_ , John couldn't help confirming to himself – he slid his hand away.

"Are these human eyes?" Sgt. Donovan shouted from the kitchen, destroying Sherlock's brief moment of composure.

"We found Rachel," Lestrade interjected.

"Nevermind that," Anderson said gleefully, peering around the corner, "we found the case! According to someone, the murderer will have the case and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson, I'm a high-functioning sociopath – "

" – do your research," John finished. Sherlock caught the shadow of a smirk on his doctor's face before diving into the details about Rachel with the DI.

* * *

"Shut up, everybody shut up, don't move don't even SPEAK. Anderson, turn the other way, you're putting me off."

As Sherlock rattled off a series of rapid-fire thoughts intended only for himself, John detached the luggage tag from the Pink Lady's case and began typing into the laptop. _Wait, isn't this my laptop? Ok, come back to that later, not the time, Watson._

"She planted the phone to lead us to her killer," Sherlock concluded.

"But, how?" Lestrade asked skeptically.

"Rachel!" Both of the flat's thoroughly aggravated residents shouted in unison. Sherlock spun around to face John in shock, but couldn't manage a comment before being interrupted.

"So we can read her emails," came the snarky retort from the kitchen.

"Anderson don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street."

John began to laugh at his friend's outburst when the online GPS tracker made his blood run cold. "Sherlock," he whispered shakily.

"Where is it, quickly, where?"

"S'here… it's in 221B Baker Street. How can it…" But John's voice faded as Sherlock became lost in his own recollections of details of the previous suicides murders. Mrs. Hudson had been prattling on in the background about a taxi driver for several minutes, but only now was he understanding. The text alert on his phone beeped.

 _COME WITH ME_

"Sherlock, you ok?" the doctor ventured.

"What, yeah, I'm fine…" The obviously untrue response lingered behind him as he ran down the stairs and out onto the pavement.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes."


	7. Prepare to Die

"He just got in a cab," John reported from the window as Lestrade's team began filing down the stairs. "I'm calling the phone and it's ringing out."

"If it's ringing, it's not here," Greg responded unnecessarily. "Why did he do that? Leave?"

"You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't." The DI turned back from the doorway, curiosity in his eyes. "You two have only just met. Why do you put up with him?"

John felt the weight of his gun in his waistband. He remembered a morning just eight days previous when he had felt its weight in his palm, sitting alone at dawn in his sparse single room flat. He swallowed hard and shrugged, then returned his gaze to the street below, watching as the police inspector climbed into an unmarked car and drove off.

He had not given voice to the answer that came unbidden: _Because I'm desperate, that's why._

The laptop broke through his reverie with a shrill beep. Quickly scanning the GPS tracker, a fire lighting in his brain, John Watson collected the device and ran full tilt out into the night.

* * *

The cabbie had been rambling on about being a 'proper genius.' For a genius, he certainly was dull. _Get to the point_ , Sherlock urged silently. The image of John's fathomless eyes, black and indigo, shining in the dimly lit entry hall at Baker Street, flashed through the detective's mind and was gone as quickly as it came. _That was interesting, more interesting than this is turning out to – Not now, I'm on a case!_

"Ok, two bottles. Explain." Sherlock prompted, needing to move toward a conclusion and away from whatever was happening in his own oddly disobedient mind.

As the cabbie spoke, something about the scenario prickled at the edge of Sherlock's memory. A movie? A book? He had encountered this good bottle/bad bottle game before. _Oh well, if it was important, I wouldn't have forgotten. That would be… inconceivable._

"It's not a game, it's chance."

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance. It's chess." His adversary spit the last word onto the table, challenging the detective to prove him wrong.

* * *

John shouted clipped directions through the partition of the taxi, dialing his mobile as they barreled through the ink-black London streets.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade – I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency."

He understood. He'd understood the moment the laptop returned a new location for the Pink Lady's phone. The murderer was a taxi driver. The taxi driver had come to 221B to collect Sherlock. Sherlock was an addict. The addiction would get him killed.

John again became aware of the metal pressed against his spine. He had contemplated death often enough. Perhaps he had become an addict in his own right. Sherlock was a junkie, for adrenaline and cocaine and being the most brilliant person in the room. Yet John saw in his eyes, in the lines of his smile, in his nicotine patches, what he saw in himself on all those cold nights and grey mornings: a man who was not ready to let go.

As the taxi screeched to a halt, John jumped out, throwing cash through the open window and searching the nearly empty building with the deliberate speed of a man whose own life was hanging in the balance. _Maybe it is._


	8. Shot Through The Heart

A tiny click, then a tiny flame.

"I know a real gun when I see one," Sherlock admonished.

"None of the others did."

"Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case."

"Did you figure it out? Which one would you've picked? Come on," the cabbie taunted, "play the game." He continued speaking, but in truth, it was unnecessary. It had been torture for Sherlock to ask for the gun, to stand up calmly, to walk toward the door. _Still the addict._

The detective's fingers twitched at his sides. He had chosen. And yet… he wasn't sure. It gnawed at him. His own uncertainty. The possibility of this… this… _person_ beating him. _Perhaps if I choose wrong, that's alright. It'd be over. It would all be over, and I would deserve it for being so stupid, so predictable, so –_

Shattering glass, a startled cry, the cabbie collapsing onto the floor clutching his chest. Sherlock's head whipped around, but he was already too late. Whoever it was, he'd gone. _No time for this now, there are only a few precious moments left._

"My sponsor, who was it? I want a name."

* * *

"So the shooter – no sign?" Sherlock asked, shoulders slumped in annoyance beneath a ludicrous orange blanket.

"Cleared off before we got here. Got nothing to go on." Lestrade shrugged, seeming less concerned then he ought to have been.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock perked up a bit. Deduction mode. He began his rambling series of observations and their interpretations, growing more excited with every sentence, his eyes absently surveying the scene. "You're looking for a man, probably with a history of military service, nerves of steel…" _Oh_. He noticed a jumper-clad man, short statured, who to his eyes appeared incomparably fierce. _OH_.

He mumbled something to Lestrade about ignoring what he'd said and began to wander toward the police tape.

"I've still got questions!" the DI insisted.

"Oh what now," he demanded petulantly, failing to notice John closing the distance between them.

"Excuse me, Lestrade, but he's in shock. Look, he's got a blanket." How John managed to say this without bursting into a fit of giggles, he himself did not know. "And he's just caught you a serial killer… more or less." Lestrade sighed, and John lifted the crime scene tape for his flatmate.

After the brief delay of an uncomfortable conversation with Big Brother – _Mycroft, must learn to call him Mycroft_ – the pair was finally walking out of this bizarre evening.

"So… dim sum?"

* * *

"You did get shot, though." Sherlock was barely coherent around the dumpling crammed in his mouth.

John's lo mein paused in mid-air. "Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

"Oh yeah, shoulder." John shoveled the noodles onto his tongue. Nothing tasted better past midnight than Chinese straight from the carton. They sat for a few moments, chewing in companionable silence, side by side on the sitting room sofa. Again, it was Sherlock who spoke first.

"Good shot."

"My shoulder?"

"Tonight."

"Oh. Yes, yes, must've been, through that window."

"Well you'd know." Sherlock hesitated, then ventured, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, 'course I'm alright," came the automatic reply.

"Well you have just killed a man," Sherlock insisted.

"Yes… it's true. But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he? And he was a bad cabbie. Should've seen the route he took us to get there."

John giggled, a noodle slipping out of his mouth. Sherlock had been laughing as well, and hadn't noticed what he was doing as his thumb ran across his new flatmate's lower lip to catch the errant lo mein. At least, he hadn't noticed until John froze.

"Oh, John, I'm… I didn't…"

"Sherlock."

"It's just, I wasn't thinking and…"

"Sherlock, about earlier. Downstairs. In the hall."

"Oh, um, it's ok. You don't have to explain, I'm sure you didn't realize – "

"I realized."

"Well, then, you probably didn't mean – "

"I did." A warm, steady hand fell onto the detective's thigh. "Sherlock."

There were dark eyes, tanned skin, stubble, and then…


	9. Not an Experiment

"John?"

"Mmm," the doctor replied, pressing closer.

"It's…"

"It's alright, Sherlock," he murmured.

"It's…" the detective sprang to his feet like a frightened cat "…not."

"It's… not? Um, well, I… I'm… sorry," John stammered, not understanding how things had already taken a wrong turn. "I… well, I thought you were – "

Sherlock sighed loudly, picking at a splinter on the windowsill. "I am."

"Ok. And I thought we – " John gestured vaguely toward the stairwell, knowing that somehow, even without seeing it, Sherlock would sense his gesture.

"We… were. Yes. It's not that."

"Ok," John's mind raced, trying to make sense of this. "So is it… I mean… is it me?"

"Yes."

 _Ouch_. John knew he wasn't the greatest catch in the world – boring job, war trauma, cane – but he didn't think he was so unappealing as to elicit that blatant a rejection.

"No."

John looked up. Sherlock had turned toward him now, leaning back against the desk, eyes fixed firmly on the carpet.

"John, you're not… if we're to be flatmates, and potentially," the word friends flashed through his mind, but perhaps that was overreaching, "colleagues, it's best that we not… that I not be a tool for your…"

"For my?"

The last word was molasses on Sherlock's tongue, and he had to fight to get it out. "Experimentation."

* * *

Several minutes passed in silence before John's response erupted, unbidden, from his lips. It was wrong, but he couldn't help it. He laughed. A quick glance at Sherlock showed an expression of shock and offense that only made the absurd declaration funnier. _Oh god, no wonder he doesn't want to shag me._ Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought, and he doubled over, bracing himself on the coffee table.

"I'm – oh Sherlock – I'm so sorry," he finally managed after a few steadying breaths. "It's just that I'm a thirty-six year old medical doctor. An army veteran. Perhaps this is a bit… new… for me, sure, but I'd hardly call it 'experimentation.' You make me sound like a teenager."

Sherlock's knuckles had gone white gripping the desk behind him, and though his face had turned back toward Baker Street, he hadn't managed to replace the mask he normally wore for the rest of the world. Jaw tight, lips pressed together into an impossibly thin line, eyes blinking rapidly as if to hold back –

"Oh, Sherlock," John cooed, standing to block his flatmate's potential escape. "Listen, I am sorry. I didn't realize you'd be so sensitive about this."

"I'm not sensitive about it," he swallowed with obvious difficulty, "I simply do not think it would be a good idea."

John stepped further into his personal space, right leg falling between the detective's bent knees.

"You didn't seem to feel that way a few minutes ago. Or a few hours ago, for that matter."

Sherlock said nothing, keeping his eyes carefully averted from his doctor's gaze. John took a slight step backward. He waited until the last moment to pull away, so he was interested. _He's been avoiding my eyes, so there's something he doesn't want me to see, something he knows he can't hide. He turned his body back toward mine, and didn't flinch when I came close, so he wants me to figure this out. To figure him out. But he's afraid. Maybe no one's ever figured him out before. Maybe no one's ever wanted to. Maybe no one's ever… ohhh…_

"You're a virgin. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say you've never been kissed."

 _Clenched jaw, heavy exhaled breath, cheeks sucked in._

"I'm right, aren't I? And you're afraid if you let me in, I'm going to use you."

Sherlock looked down at his trouser leg in confirmation.

"I killed a man for you tonight."

"You're not gay. You've made that very clear."

"When did I make that – my blog. You read my blog."

"Obviously. And I… am."

John nodded. One hand reached out, fingering a button on his friend's exceptionally tailored shirt. "I know. I've known since you first arrived at the clinic."

"How could you…" he fell silent as his eyes met John's. The doctor was smirking. _I can't believe I fell for that._ "Oh. Very clever."

"Thank you. But I actually wasn't lying."

Sherlock frowned. Was this how other people felt around him? _No wonder I have no friends._

"That's not why you have no friends. Neither is it why you've had no lovers."

The detective shot him a withering look, not appreciating this unprecedented feeling of exposure.

"Sherlock," John sighed, drawing him back to the matter at hand, "no. I'm not gay. But gay and straight aren't the only options, I've been told."

The eye roll. "Of course they're not the only options, how provincial do you think I am? That doesn't change the crucial fact that you're – " he began an intense study of the wall over John's right shoulder, his next words enunciated with bitter precision – "not attracted to men."

 _How the hell would he know? Wait. "Borrow your phone." Harry. He read my texts. I'll need to start using a burner around this git._

Rubbing a weary hand across his no longer clean-shaven face, John moved toward Sherlock again, pinning his hand between their chests and leaning close enough to feel downy curls against his lips as he spoke.

"I meant what I said, Sherlock. I'm not attracted to men. I'm only attracted to one."

* * *

He couldn't tell if it was John's heartbeat or his own. All he knew was that there was a pounding against his chest, a battering ram threatening to tear down all the walls. He could feel the scrape of stubble against his temple, his cheekbone. He could feel the gentle slide of fingernails against his scalp. He could smell tea and laundry soap and gunpowder and take away.

"Alright?"

He felt the word against his lips, uncertain whether it had even been spoken aloud. His mind was hazy, as if he were underwater. It was John. John was asking for permission. Permission to take something he had never given. Permission to share something no one else had ever wanted. Permission to break down everything he had spent so many years building to protect himself.

"Yes."

Sherlock's lips were so soft, so pink and wide and tender, that John was afraid to push too hard, to ruin their utter perfection. He had never kissed a man before, had never even had the desire to do so, and yet, as they separated to take a breathe and he instinctively dropped his mouth to that lily white, bergamot-and-wool scented neck, Three Continents Watson sprang into action, dragging his teeth along a pulsing blue vein as if he'd been doing this all his life.

His whole body was being consumed by fire, and there was only one thought that would satisfy his sudden, overwhelming thirst. Unfastening that damn shirt was taking far too long, and in his haste, two buttons fell to the floor.

"John – " came the protest from above, but it was immediately transformed into desperate whimper as a particularly skilled tongue laved greedily over the long-neglected bud of Sherlock's right nipple. The only thought that permeated John's conscious mind was of his want, his need, to consume this gorgeous, complex creature before him. Nothing else mattered. Only –

"Sherlock," he panted, drawing down the black metal teeth of those sleek trousers.

Hearing his name seemed to bring the detective back to himself. "John," he interjected, his voice shaking much more than he cared to acknowledge, "you really don't have to…"

The eyes that stared up into his were dark in a way Sherlock had never thought possible. The irises had gone almost purple. He'd never seen anyone so beautiful, so tempting, so…

A hiss broke from his throat as the back of a strong hand ran firmly up the length of his embarrassingly hard cock. His eyes closed, head tilting toward the ceiling. He fought to turn off the one thought cycling rapidly through his brain: T _his is happening. This is happening. This is –_

"JAWN!" His eyelids flew open, but he saw nothing. Something had enveloped him, warm and wet and unlike anything he had ever experienced, and despite his better judgment, he couldn't help but look down at a sight he hadn't even given himself the leeway to imagine. Fingers wrapped around him, pumping in time to the almost unbearably glorious sensation of John Watson's mouth. Sherlock's hands threaded involuntarily into military-short blond hair, grip tightening as a hum of pleasure from the man kneeling before him sent shockwaves through his entire body.

 _God, this man tastes delicious. Even his fucking cock is posh._ John smirked momentarily before returning his focus to the task at hand: taking apart the trembling tower of consulting detective above him. He slowly squeezed Sherlock's left thigh, maintaining the pressure as he slid his hand further, further, just beneath the leg opening of those fantastically small black silk boxers. And then he had an idea.

Sherlock was already gripping his hair, panting – obviously trying to hold himself together. That will never do. The corner of his mouth twitched for a moment, pleased with himself for his own daring as he slid his right hand across the front of those undoubtedly overpriced pants, wrapping it around the long, flushed _fucking fantastic_ length where his left hand had been moments earlier. No response. Perfect. He won't suspect anything until –

"Ahhh!" Something between an exhale and a moan tumbled from the detective's mouth as two saliva-slick fingertips stroked over his entrance, though he'd never thought of it using that term before. _What is happening to me?_ He wondered with surprisingly little trepidation. _Six hours ago, I was just –_

"Jawn, JAWN!" His knees gave a few inches as he instinctively slid down to meet John's insistent pressure while that _clever, brilliant man_ worked his way into Sherlock's body. His legs trembled, and he held tighter to John's head, afraid he would collapse before reaching climax. _Climax. Oh god, I hadn't even thought about that! What should I… should I warn him? Pull him off? I don't even know what the proper etiquette is for –_

"FUCK OH MY GOD JOHN!"

 _Found it,_ John thought proudly, allowing Sherlock a moment to catch his breath before going in for the kill. Rolling his tongue in rapid circles around the tip of that thick, leaking cock, he braced Sherlock's thigh with his right hand, giving a few short pumps into his eager body, then mimicking the circular motion against that wonderfully sensitive bundle of nerves. _Just once or twice more and…_

A scream, primal and raw and _sexy as hell_ ripped from Sherlock's throat, while John dove forward, taking him in as deeply as he could, not wanting to lose one single drop as hot cum poured down his throat for the first – _and definitely not last, if I have anything to say about it_ – time in his life.

Sherlock Holmes slumped forward, unable to bear his own weight, and was caught by the waiting arms of his new… um…

"We'll work out what to call it later," John whispered.

A few seconds later, footfalls raced halfway up the stairs, stopping at the middle landing.

"Sherlock? Boys? Should I be calling the police, or an ambulance?"

John chuckled. "No, Mrs. Hudson, I've got everything under control now."

"Are you certain, dear?"

"Yes. And Mrs. Hudson?" He added cheerfully, "I don't think I'll be needing that bedroom upstairs."


	10. A Magic Trick

Something smooth slid down John's spine. Begrudgingly opening his eyes and squinting at the clock on the bedside table, he did a quick calculation. Forty-five minutes. He'd only been asleep forty-five minutes.

"I know you're awake."

"Mm," John grunted, non-committal. The object dragged slowly back up the notches of his vertebrae. _What on earth is he…_

"I thought maybe, if you were game for another round… I could take care of you this time?"

John heard the question in his partner's voice clearly. If it'd been anyone else, he would pull the covers over his head and apologize in the morning. But as it was, with everything he had learned in the last two hours, he simply stifled a yawn and resigned himself to insufficient sleep.

Just as the whatever-it-was pressed against his back once more, John flipped over, throwing off the duvet and pinning Sherlock's biceps to the mattress on either side of his head with bruising force.

"Let me be extremely clear about one thing." His voice was a low growl. Sherlock strained his eyes – deducing was nearly impossible in the darkness, _useless transport._ His mind raced to understand what he'd done wrong.

John lowered his body so they were almost touching. He had maintained his military physique through rote habit; now he was glad of it.

"What I did earlier…" His eyes flickered to the object still clutched in Sherlock's right hand. A riding crop. _Of course. How had I not guessed._ "When I do _that_ …" He paused again, then decided it was worth the risk. "When I wrap my hands around your red, pulsing cock, when I roll my tongue across it, licking, sucking, trying to devour every inch of you – "

Sherlock's pupils were black holes, velvet discs barely visible in the faint traces of light creeping through the blinds. He was barely breathing. John held his unblinking gaze.

" – _that_. That is not only for you."

The detective could feel the heat from the body hovering over him, wincing when his unclothed erection grazed John's pants. The doctor gave no indication that he'd noticed, instead turning his attention to the black leather device still clutched tight in Sherlock's fist.

"So tell me. What exactly were you planning to do with this?"

Shifting his weight, John released the arm holding the _toy_ – he forcefully suppressed a giggle at that thought – and dipped his tongue into the muscular divide of those lean arms, trailing upward, forearm, wrist, and, without warning, enveloping two of those long, delicate fingers deep in his throat. Sherlock moaned, involuntarily rolling his hips upward, seeking contact, friction, _anything_.

Drawing off slowly, cheeks hollowed, savoring every moment of Sherlock's shattered composure, he turned his head just enough to make eye contact.

"Oh, I see. _You_ weren't planning to do anything with it. Lucky for you, Captain Watson is in the mood to experiment," he teased, flashing a soft smile to ensure it came off as a joke. The quick nod of understanding was all John needed before grasping the middle of the handle with his teeth and backing slowly down the detective's body, dragging gasps of pleasure from the younger man as skin glided over skin.

* * *

"Tell me," John demanded, gentling guiding the back's of Sherlock's thighs upward until his knees were bent, displaying everything the man had to offer. "What is it you were hoping for, hm? What is it you want?"

"Any – " it came out in a nervous croak. Sherlock cleared his throat hastily and began again. "Anything. Anything you want. Just…" I _'m safe here. I don't know how I know, but I'm safe._ "Just, please, John. _Please_."

John smiled again, hearing the sincerity in his voice, the openness, the unusual and incredibly endearing innocence. _Not now, Watson, there'll be time for sentiment later. Give the man what he wants_.

The tip of the riding crop grazed Sherlock's sharply jutting hipbone, stroked the inside of his thigh, made a loop and moved down, down… John smirked at the way the body laid out before him jumped slightly as he pressed the leather along his bollocks, up the unparalleled length of _seriously fucking gorgeous_ cock, which rose to meet it as it approached the tip.

"One blow job and now you're absolutely gagging for it," he noted with admiration. "You're beautiful like this, do you know that?" Even in the darkness, he could see a flush rising up Sherlock's chest and neck, undoubtedly coloring that perfectly sculpted face. "I want to spend the rest of my life trying to satisfy you… though who knows how long I'll last with a libido like yours." He laughed softly. "You machine."

...

"You machine," he spat. He'd had enough this time. Mrs. Hudson – _Mrs. Hudson of all bloody people_ – had been shot, was dying, and the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes needed to "think." _Well he may not be a fraud as a detective, but he's sure as hell a sorry excuse for a man._

...

John shook his head. _What was that?_

"Um… John?" Sherlock ventured tentatively, not wanting to break the mood. "Are you… I mean, is everything…?"

"Hm? Yes. Yeah, I'm fine," he answered, coughing lightly and shaking his head once more for good measure. "Anyway, where were we… ahhh yes…" He grinned, focus returning to the mile of wanton consulting detective stretched on the bed before him. John leaned forward, pressing his mouth to the lower edge of Sherlock's rib cage. Slowly, slowly, he dragged his tongue up and down every ridge, the rapid rise and fall of breath complementing each undulating movement, punctuated by a deep sigh as nails scraped the skin on the opposite side of that carved ivory chest.

"Tell me," came the stage whisper in Sherlock's ear, "all those years. How did you manage it? You must have some tricks. How did you… handle things… on your own?"

The response was automatic through shallow breaths, "Alone was what I had. In a way, I suppose… alone protects me."

...

"Alone protects me."

After everything, everything that they'd been through in that night alone, this stone-faced denial of friendship, of support, of… of… _sod this_.

"No," John corrected, storming out. "Friends protect people."

As the blood pounded in his ears, he wondered. This wasn't the first time he had walked out on Sherlock. But if Mrs. Hudson – if she didn't recover – might it be the last?

...

"John!"

The doctor was bracing himself on his elbows. His face was hot, and a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

"John, what's going on? Are you alright?"

He swallowed. In truth, he didn't know what was going on. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. It was nothing. He needed it to be nothing.

"I'm fine," he lied. I _t's not a lie. Ok, well, I'm not certain it's not a lie, but I'm not certain it is either._

"Maybe you should…" Sherlock sat up, arranging some pillows against the headboard. John opened his mouth to protest, but at the anxiety in his – boyfriend's? _Oh, who cares right now_ – eyes, he shut it again and simply nodded, settling himself on his back.

"Close your eyes for a minute. I'm not… well, you've probably surmised that I'm not exactly the 'caregiver' sort, but…"

There was an unexpected but not at all unpleasant pressure on the arch of John's foot. _Who would have imagined… getting an unsolicited foot rub from the world's only consulting –_

"Mmm. Wow, Sherlock. Where – ahhh – where did you learn to do that?" John could feel the tension in his body fading. For all his years of study and practice, he doubted he'd ever given someone this amount of comfort. At least, not without drugs.

"Oh, just something I've picked up." The final "p" popped dramatically, and John swore he heard the tiniest hint of a smile. "Nothing too special, really. It's just a magic trick."

"No!" John lurched forward, but it was too late. That graceful, clever man had lost his balance. He was going over the edge, limbs flailing to no avail. John could do nothing but watch in horror as the unimaginable unfolded before his eyes: Sherlock Holmes fell.

* * *

The breeze seeping in beneath the cracked window mingled with the sheen of sweat coating John's naked torso, raising gooseflesh along his arms and down his spine. He sat as he had so many nights now: lungs constricted, throat rasping, desperate for oxygen in the vacuum of his former life. The heavy blue duvet twisted round his legs. The periodic table kept vigil on the wall, taunting him with its elegant simplicity, its clean boxes of unwavering reality. The blinds had fallen crooked, and a shard of light let itself in, glinting off the empty vial on the bedside table. John glanced over the edge of the bed to where the used syringe had fallen to the floor. _This is reality now_.

Without thinking, he opened the drawer in the nightstand, wrapping his hands around the cool metal grip of his handgun. He didn't need to think about it anymore. It had become a ritual. Any moment now…

Long, pale fingers snaked their way around his wrist, pushing his hand down onto the duvet until it released the captive weapon, muzzle pointed safely at the far wall. John no longer bothered trying to touch that hand. Several failed attempts had convinced him of the truth. Sherlock Holmes wasn't merely dead; he was a ghost. T _he ghosts we make for ourselves._ Next would be the voice.

"John."

 _Right on cue_. "Sherlock, please. I've tried. I've tried to be strong. I've tried to be honest. I've tried – " he looked once more at the syringe " – I've tried to be seven percent closer to you."

"John."

"I'm ready, Sherlock. Please, this time. Take me with you. I'm ready. I'm ready to let go."

He choked on the final words, although they were nothing new. He had been through this a hundred times by now. _Thirty-seven, don't exaggerate. (Please shut up.)_ The dream, the ensuing conversation, the inevitable requests for release from his pain. It was well rehearsed, a carefully choreographed dance that had to be seen through to its natural conclusion before he could fall into the blissful numbness of dreamless sleep, courtesy of the contents of Sherlock's little black box.

"No."

John sighed. It was always the same answer. If only, just once, he would say "yes." If only he would say _anything_ else, anything different.

He inhaled deeply. Sherlock's linens, washed in Sherlock's laundry soap. Sherlock's shampoo. John had been consuming as much of his former flatmate – best friend – partner – as he could. It was no surprise that by the time he'd found his works, he was ready. Everything in this room was Sherlock. Even the laptop screen, still glowing on a chair in the corner, displayed the tale of their first case. John swallowed hard. He had shed tears willingly for the real Sherlock, but he would never give that much to this specter, this adulteration that haunted his thoughts. He hadn't cried in a year, at least. It was better that way.

Another inhale, not so much to steady his breath as to steady his mind. Sherlock's linens. Sherlock's shampoo. And… something else. John's brow furrowed. Wet wool and… cigarettes? _This isn't right_. As much as he loathed the dance, he had come to rely on it. Now he felt as though his senses were betraying some bargain struck in the strung-out hours of the night.

"John."

 _No… that doesn't come next_. And that voice. It was wrong, somehow. Thin and fragile, where it should have been insistent and condescending. _Like the real Sherlock._ Trouble was, the real Sherlock didn't exist any longer. His name had been cleared, but that didn't matter anymore. Despite John's desperate hope, his yearning, his graveside plea –

"John."

"No. Stop it. Stop now." He couldn't take this. Was it not enough that his own mind – well, his own mind with repeated chemical assistance – had conjured a Sherlock that forced him to go on, day by day, alone? Was even that Sherlock turning on him now?

There was only one thing for it. The end of the dance, the final line of the script. There was one answer John had never been able to draw from his ghost Sherlock, one answer he knew he would never receive. Every time, it ended the same way: silence. He steeled himself. This was the part that never got easier.

"I asked you for one more miracle," he announced to the darkened room. "I asked you not to be dead."

The sour scent of damp wool and stale smoke grew stronger. Rough fabric grazed John's cheek as weary arms fell delicately, fearfully around his chest.

"I heard you."

Hot teardrops splashed onto his trembling hand as it grasped the long fingers clutched over his heart – _fingers that did not disappear at his touch_. And in that moment, John Watson knew everything he needed to know: he would never again be ready to let go. Their lives depended on it. For Sherlock Holmes, he would hold on.


End file.
